


A World in Technicolour

by wickersnap



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, I tried though, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scenes, Pining, between canon content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:32:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickersnap/pseuds/wickersnap
Summary: “What brings you here?” Aziraphale asks, and oh, Crowley has missed that smile. He wants to reach out and touch.“Nothing much, just visiting.”“Oh, good. I have a nice Moët I picked up a while ago, if you would you like some.” Aziraphale looks at him expectantly.“Ehh, couldn’t hurt, I suppose. Are you done for the night, then?”“Quite,” he says. “It’s been rather a slow day.”





	A World in Technicolour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emilyswritings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilyswritings/gifts).



> This is the most dedicated I think I've been to finishing a fic. It was a real labour of love, y'all wouldn't believe the inane things I've researched to get this as true as I could bear. I also now know a hell of a lot more about my own country's history, and honestly I am ashamed I have to say that. Anyway, it was incredibly interesting and fun to write, and I hope that comes across as you read! I hope you enjoy :)  
> I do suggest listening to Amber Run's Heaven (inspiration for the title), and pretty much any Bastille, but especially Doom Days, for a great Aziraphale-and-Crowley-on-the-brink-of-Armageddon feel.

The street is cobbled, narrow, and crowded with houses. In more than a few of the dingy bricks builds, several families are sharing a room, small and dusty and dark. Down the road and a bit to the right is a workhouse; Crowley is loath to walk that far. A bit further is the next factory, billowing choking black smoke. It smothers the city, down here, layering on black dust and discolouring the glass of windows and street lamps as it crawls through like an invisible plague. He should have just stayed in bed.

It’s at times such as these that Crowley is grateful that he doesn’t really, _technically,_ have to breathe, if he thinks fairly hard about it—it just makes his extremities tingle unpleasantly for a while—though he struggles to convince his aching chest to quiet down. Ignoring, steadfastly, the implications of the mounting difficulty of tasks like these over time (anyone would become accustomed to a certain way of life after nearly six-thousand years, wouldn’t they?), he grumbles to himself over the likelihood of having to discorporate himself when the humans manage to give him cancer, of all things, or something similar.

Standing at the end of the road is a pale figure (even through Crowley’s dark glasses) who cuts a striking contrast against the London grime in his long coat and hat. He idly twirls an umbrella, or Hanway, depending on your type, waiting.

“Expecting rain?” Crowley asks stepping up beside him. He looks out at the square where Aziraphale is watching little boys run around with bin lids and kitchen tools. 

“An _en-tout-cas,_ if you will,” Aziraphale sighs, leaning gently sideways towards him. Their shoulders brush.

“Funny, isn’t it,” begins Crowley, without intending to finish.

“Hmm?” 

“Don’t you think?”

“What’s funny, my dear?”

When Crowley swallows he realises his throat is a little rough. Is it possible for demons to catch human colds? Maybe it’s the pollution.

“The humans. They make such leaps in progress, but they’re always so _demeaning_ of everyone else. And I didn’t even have anything to do with it!” Hurried, he incautiously inhales and has to strangle the oncoming coughing fit. The smog coats his lungs most uncomfortably. “They’re just doing it all by themselves. Clever, they are. _Or_ downright stupid, one or the other.”

“There ought to be a saying for something like this,” Aziraphale agrees, glancing at him with a small, sad smile. “They're like… hmm, I don’t know. Which other creatures are similarly self-concerned?” 

The day is relatively mild, and still Crowley finds himself wiping the sweat from his hands surreptitiously on his trousers. 

“Most of them, I’d suppose. Bees? Nah,” Crowley frowns. “Some sort of bug, maybe. Or crustacean. They’re always trampling over each other, aren’t they?”

Aziraphale looks at him from under his eyelashes with a raised brow, as if Crowley were a particularly charming, but outrageous court Jester. “What, ‘like crustaceans in barrels’? It’ll never catch on.”

“Yeah, yeah. As you say.”

It has been almost a decade since they last met, and he’s certain that it may be another before they do again. He’s content to stand around in comfortable silence, but he’d rather they do so elsewhere, where—

“I heard there is talk of an exhibition,” Aziraphale muses.

“Oh yeah? Who from?” Crowley asks, though of course he’s heard all the rumours already—he may even have had a hand in some of the more malicious ones. Well, maybe a finger, at most. A fingernail, even.

“Oh, you know. Around,” he continues, though he surely knows that Crowley knows, and has been meddling, because he’s all-knowing like that. Omniscient. “They’re building a palace for it, and inventors from all around the world are to be showcasing their business. Some are saying it’s to be made entirely out of glass. How lovely would that be?” He is back to surveying the street corner, and does not sound so suitably impressed as maybe he ought to, because this is well… an event of almost unprecedented scale. No, instead he looks more or less wistful. Crowley cannot imagine that anything would be preventing him attending, so he is unsure of the reason behind Aziraphale’s mood.

“Well,” says Crowley’s mouth as it runs away from him, “I think you and I should visit it—when it opens.” 

Immediately he cringes (because _oh God, I just invited him to meet again and this was_ not _a part of the deal what have I done)_ , but Aziraphale seems to lose the tension in shoulders as he blinks thoughtfully.

“Why yes, maybe we ought to. It’ll be a nice day out, I suppose. Some, shall we say, reconnaissance, maybe?”

“To better understand the humans we’re posing as, yes,” Crowley nods. “Good plan, Angel. Well then, shall we take a walk?” Unthinkingly he offers his arm, but Aziraphale takes it, his now-folded umbrella taken as a cane in hand. Rather than betray his precious pride by making himself look the fool and _smiling,_ Crowley lifts his chin and sets off at a leisurely pace, Aziraphale’s warm hand tucked into his elbow.

They meander; they stroll from one thoroughfare to the next, and then down the quietest residential streets and back, and they chat about any and all of the inane things that come to mind. They debate Volta’s electrical batteries, and some light astronomy, and Dickens and Austen, of course, while children playing and pedestrians grouching become cheered and warmed wherever Aziraphale passes through. Along their way they encounter a rather sudden coach accident, in which everyone involved crawls out miraculously unharmed (and yes, even the horses suffer naught but mild bemusement). Some spoilt brat of a child knocks a basket of fruit from their windowsill, which finds itself, pristine and tucked in with a warm woollen blanket, in the hands of an astonished-looking, grimy but pretty young thing with no two coppers to rub together. By the time they’ve walked their way into St James’s, the chilly October evening sky is darkening like an ink spill in water. 

The lamplighter is late, only just finishing up when they arrive. He fumbles the last light and manages to set fire to his sleeve. Aziraphale huffs at Crowley, an unimpressed slant to his lips, and with another click the lamplighter manages to put out the flame, no damage done. 

“Really, you’re going to have to put more effort into your work,” Aziraphale reprimands, though Crowley can’t see the problem with a bit of light chaos. “We can’t have you slacking off now.”

“Isn’t this a bit backwards? Shouldn’t you be trying to keep me from creating?”

“We are adversaries, are we not? I can’t have you letting me off lightly, now.” The smug smirk Aziraphale gives him with that matter-of-fact eyebrow twitch pulls at something in Crowley’s gut. Having previously been able to ignore the leaps in his mood and odd skipped heartbeat, Crowley is overcome with the want to hide. 

“You’re going soft, Angel.”

“Hmm, as you say.”

When they arrive outside The Royal Society, emerging from the park onto The Mall, the orange light of the lamps now spills out into total darkness. Not even the stars can struggle through the perpetual haze over their beloved, choking city. 

A few decades ago, Crowley had a brief encounter with the late William Blake, about a year before he returned to London. He had run into him during a visit to Chichester, and had some time later been invited to visit him at his home in Felpham. While there, Blake had confided in him (or whined at him, either would be correct) about his patron William Hayley, and had shown him some truly extraordinary original illustrations, and the beginnings of _Milton._ He thinks of him now, and the passionate, yet mournful way he had read _London_ aloud for his one-man audience. 

When Crowley had accidentally mentioned Aziraphale, wondering what he would give to see even a fraction of this work, Blake had exclaimed in surprise.

“Are you acquainted with Mister Fell? The gentleman who owns a bookshop?” 

“... Yes, I suppose so. One could say we’ve known each other an awfully long time.” Crowley had replied.

“Oh good gracious me. Well isn’t that just fabulous.” Blake had become a flurry of motion, pulling out brown paper packaging and stealing a goose quill and paper from his cluttered desk. “He was just here not two weeks ago! In fact, I have just finished something I’d rather like him to have. A one-of-a-kind type of gift, yes? Would you be agreeable to passing it along to him for me? I’m afraid I somewhat forgot to ask for his address. I’m not sure we shall ever cross paths again, so it would be wonderful if you could do me this nicety, Mister Crowley.” Crowley had taken the package, not given Aziraphale’s address (it wasn’t his to give), and had accepted unique copies of _Songs of Innocence and of Experience,_ of which he had every intention of also gifting to Aziraphale. Nevertheless, he had not crossed paths with his angel for almost fifty years after then, so he still has it, tucked into an inside pocket of his coat, anticipating its time. Regardless of Aziraphale’s predictable reaction, Crowley is unsure whether to be excited or apprehensive, because, after all, the present is neither from him—but from a man now dead and gone—and nor is it to be delivered on time. It is an uncomfortable weight to be carrying for something sitting in another dimension. 

Rather than making the sensible decision to continue around to the opposite side of the park and head home, Crowley accompanies Aziraphale through Piccadilly Circus, and all the way to the bottom step of A. Z. Fell & Co.

“It’s still early,” Aziraphale says, stepping up to the door. “Would you care for a drink? I think I have a bottle of—”

“Angel, it’s a kind offer, but I think I best be getting home.” Crowley interrupts stiffly. Aziraphale hesitates with the key in the lock, but nonetheless turns a smile to him. 

“Ah, don’t worry, in that case.” He pushes open his door. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a lovely day. I suppose I shall bid you farewell, in the meantime.”

And this was strange, and uncomfortable, because neither of them had really done _goodbyes_ and _farewells_ before, not with each other. Crowley, feeling at this moment wholly alien, hastens to retrieve the parcel burning an inter-dimensional hole in his pocket.

“I think I, uh, have something of yours. Sorry it’s late.” He hands both parts out to a suitably surprised angel. “Blake asked me to give this to you,” he says waving the brown paper package.

“Oh,” Aziraphale takes them gently, reverently, and flips over the labels. He gestures to the second package. “And this?”

“Something else he gave to me.”

“I shan’t say the words, Crowley, but you know what I want to tell you.” Aziraphale sighs and looks much too put-upon. “We ought to visit his grave.”

“What good’ll that do? He won’t still be there, you know. Souls and all that… wonder whose he was in the end.” 

“It’s the nice thing to do.” Aziraphale argues, glaring at him a little. He itches to reach out, to step up beside Aziraphale and run his hand along his side, or down his arm. He itches to touch.

“When have I been nice, Angel? You say it yourself, _I’m a demon_. Best be off, anyway. I’ll see you around,” Crowley rolls his eyes and turns to go.

“Until the exhibition!” Aziraphale calls after him. Crowley doesn’t dare look back, lest he change his mind, so waves vaguely over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

They do, in fact, run into each other quite conveniently outside the crowded Exhibition centre on the day of its opening. Crowley even sacrificed another day of sleep, just on the off-chance, of course.

The Crystal Palace is spectacular, and fully deserving of Aziraphale’s omnibenevolent appreciation—the kind he seems to have for anything and everything. Though today, it appears to be overshadowed, slightly, by his anxiety. Inside, the glasshouse swells with the crowds of aristocracy. After not too long, and minimal minor miracles, Crowley has led them around both the most interesting exhibits, talking all the while, plucking the knowledge right out of the minds of the presenters. He takes the quietest route to all of the parts in which he knows Aziraphale will be wholly interested, even excited by, as well as those that Crowley only _thinks_ he may like, too. Having completed their cursory tour, Crowley lands them outside, in the shelter of a tree, on a park bench. 

“Gosh, look at those rhododendrons,” says Aziraphale. “This garden is gorgeous, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, quite.” Crowley can sense an oncoming smattering of rain, just on the horizon.

Aziraphale turns to him. “Did you see what Jerrold wrote in _Punch_?”

“You know I’m not one for reading.”

“Oh, I thought it was one of your publications. Rather good, if I do say.”

“Just because I don’t read it doesn’t mean it wasn’t,” Crowley retorts.

“Was it, then?” 

“No. But I have started others. Loads, sure. Mostly the ones in which everyone bitches about everything else.”

“A commendable effort, then,” Aziraphale slides him a sly smirk.

“You don’t believe me,” Crowley accuses.

“Of course I do, my dear. Your nefarious methods are always very enterprising.”

“Would I lie to you?” 

“You’re a demon,” says Aziraphale, not for the first time, “that’s what you _do._ ” Crowley watches his face, just for a moment. The trees shuffle in the background.

“Ah whatever. You think too well of the world. Humans are bastards, you know. Not half as kind as you think they are.” He huffs and folds his arms over his chest.

Aziraphale hums. “That may be, but I do know that they have equal capacity for good. Does everywhere you go feel like evil, to you?”

“More and more, lately. Though—I understand your point. Neither good nor bad, naturally neutral, easily susceptible, etcetera.” Crowley slouches down in his seat. No one notices them here, they’re all too distracted by the Exhibition. Aziraphale sighs.

“You know what I’m not going to say, Crowley, but know that I really do mean it, for today.”

“Hmm, I’d prefer if you didn’t, though.”

“Pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m sure that helps. No one else does.”

“Yes, yes, only me. It still doesn’t make it _desirable_ , Aziraphale. Not if _they_ find out.”

“Well,” Aziraphale mumbles, and adjusts his sitting position. “I apologise, in any case.”

A long moment passes between them. The breeze creeps forward to play with Crowley’s hair. He looks surreptitiously over at his companion. For May, London is very cool this year, and particularly damp.

With a sigh, he pats Aziraphale’s arm. “Still, if I weren’t the bad guy, what would you have left to do?”

He understands that it isn’t particularly fair to ask of him that he never express his gratitude, but it would be admitting to some of his more well-meaning actions, if he were to accept it. He couldn’t do that.

If you think about it, though, Aziraphale ought truly to be the oddity. Not only had he not acted with any hostility at all towards Crowley, right at the Beginning, he had continued this amicable acquaintanceship, and had not even once attempted to reform him.

“It’s fine, by the way. Reconnaissance, we said; all for the betterment of business,” Crowley reasons.

Aziraphale nods and gets to his feet.

“Lunch? I could do with a bite to eat. On me.”

Crowley tips his hat to him. “Lead on.”

Of course, after lunch they find themselves wandering back towards Aziraphale’s bookshop. Aziraphale turns back to him when he steps up to the door, holding it open for him.

“Do come in, Crowley, I’ve found something I would like to show you.”

It is undoubtedly, at this point, out of Crowley’s power to resist. There are only so many times one can reject your only friend, and after the last abysmal excuse… Crowley thinks that right now, even if he had to, he would not want to leave. 

The original Blake prints are now framed, hung on the ends of Aziraphale’s poetry shelves alongside his more obscure pieces, pressed leaves and flowers, and his ancient parchments. The new item of interest is a newly discovered lamenting on the purpose of angels, and why demons should exist if they were to, theoretically, do nought but cancel each other out, and the dichotomy of good and bad. Aziraphale reads these comedic musings aloud for Crowley, who is doing his level best to make himself at home and not to feel so out of place. He sprawls across a sofa opposite Aziraphale’s armchair and sips from his wine. Sometimes he misses high society in ancient Rome.

“Well that sounds rather profound, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale smiles overtop the thick, gilded book. “I would like to think this all as nonsense, and keep a few degrees of distance, but…” Crowley doesn’t worry, per se, not because he can see Aziraphale laughing it off, but because he’s a demon, so of course he wouldn’t. But he does wonder what he thinks of all of this. Crowley himself doesn’t care. Not anymore. So it’s all a little on-the-nose—what difference does it make to him? An angel can fall for asking questions.

“Ahhh, Angel. You know humans, poking their annoying facial protrusions into things they don’t understand. I shan’t give it too much thought, and neither should you. Entertaining, though.” Crowley salutes the author with his glass.

“I suppose you’re right, but it is an interesting viewpoint don’t you agree?” Aziraphale chuckles, and continues reading. In the early hours, both are comfortably sated. The snugness of Aziraphale’s place overrides Crowley’s apprehensions, and soon enough he is able to fully appreciate the intimacy of the crooked little place. Not crooked in the sense of evil or bad, just… askew. Plush furnishings closed in by tall, slumping hardwood shelves heaving with books, well cared for. The crackling fire, set far away from the flammables. The many cushions and blankets he lies on now. 

Aziraphale has long moved onto other conversation. Crowley hums at times, mostly following but drifting off every so often. He’s so comfortable.

 

* * *

 

Needless to say that after their next meeting, eleven years later, they don’t see each other again for a while. Crowley stands and stares into the St James’s duck pond, long, long after Aziraphale has stormed away. Never mind asking for any, it feels as though there is an endless, gleaming pitcher of holy water slowly filling him up from the inside. In some cruel, cruel part of his mind, he thinks, it is Aziraphale clutching the handle. When the sun shows signs of setting, Crowley turns as if he’d only been there moments and sets off in the direction of his flat. All of London’s colours are muted, yellowed and asphyxiated in the pollution. The lamplighters are early, but even by twilight their flames are dim. The river rolls beneath his feet like a sheet of black silk, only more threatening. After all of these years, and all of the acquiescence Crowley had made for his angel, for _millennia,_ and yet he does not even think once to condemn him for this. 

His flat is still sparse, but much, much nicer than anything he’d managed for himself a few centuries previous. Today, somehow, the wood panelling is cold and the wallpaper unwelcoming. He throws himself into bed and does not arise until there are bells and mourners traipsing the streets below his window. 

He did like old Queen Vic, after all.

 

* * *

  

By all accounts, he’d never meant for a catastrophe of this scale.

He’d only wanted their pride. He’d only wanted to get _them_ , not everyone else. 

In the early morning of Wednesday the twelfth of April, 1912, he had boarded the London and South Western at Waterloo heading for Southampton. There had been a great hubbub, and even with the hundreds upon hundreds of excited passengers, Crowley had known Aziraphale was among them. Not near him, but around.

Crowley was more numb, now, than hurt, but he let it smart how he was being so blatantly avoided. Eventually, though, Aziraphale had let himself be found. They had dined together and danced together, and now, here they are, seated atop the upright prow of the unsinkable, watching its devastation ensue.

Aziraphale has his face in his hands. 

“Isn’t this familiar,” Crowley murmurs, without a hint of amusement.

“But that was all a part of the plan!” Aziraphale whines. Crowley is certain those lifeboats could not previously carry so many people. “That was different. That was the Ark, and neither of us were supposed to do anything. We didn’t even stay long.” He’s right, of course, they had just hopped onto the roof and stayed to watch the water rise.

Crowley sighs down at the ever-approaching ocean. “To play the advocate, how do you know that this isn’t part of the plan?”

“It’s different! Don’t say such a thing, Crowley. I can hardly bear to stand this.” Aziraphale says. He worries at his nails and looks on, eyes downturned and eyebrows drawn. “First the coal miners, now…”

“...” The words get caught in Crowley’s throat, but he doesn’t quite choke. “I’m sorry, Angel.”

“Oh shush, you. I know you didn’t do it.”  It’s the first time Aziraphale has looked at him properly in days. In spite of the occasion, Crowley feels a little less like the world is bearing down on his chest. Aziraphale continues. “Or, whatever it was, I know you didn’t want for _this._ ” He throws out his hands and then brings them back to resume pulling at the skin around his nails. Crowley sighs, again, and lightly—hesitantly—puts a hand around Aziraphale’s shoulders. After a moment, he tightens his grip and pulls gently, and Aziraphale leans into his side. He pushes Aziraphale’s hands away from his mouth. They go easily to rest in his lap. At some point Crowley’s wings have taken it upon themselves to bracket he and his angel, and the wind is no longer so harsh. He rustles them out a little and curls them tighter.

More large debris surfaces from the ship which the adrift cling to in desperation, and there’s an incoming rescue vessel. 

It’s a long night.

 

* * *

 

There’s a World War in 1914, which Crowley is _not_ to blame for. There’s a depression in 1929, which he is, and the London Conference on Naval Disarmament in 1930, which he has nothing to do with. 

Then there’s the founding of the soon shut down British Union of Fascists in 32 (which _was_ him, just for a laugh), another World War in 39 (which wasn’t), the nationalisation of the coal industry in 47 (which is), the NHS in 48 (which wasn’t), alongside the Olympics at Wembley (do you see the pattern here). The Republic of Ireland is formed in 49, British troops are sent into the Korean War in 1950, Liz II is crowned in 52, commercial TV begins in 55, the Clean Air Act is passed and first nuclear power station in Britain switched on in 56, the testing of the first British Hydrogen bomb in 57, the abolishment of the death penalty in 65, England to win the football cup in 66, and—

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

And isn’t that a bit of a bomb to drop. Crowley supposes he had pushed a little bit, and if he’d been desperate… Well it doesn’t matter now. It’s okay, he tells himself. Aziraphale is out of the car and gone. He puts the flask in the door and his hands out in front of him, resting them on the steering wheel. 

He’s jerked out of the weird buzzing of nothingness by a rapping on the window. Blast it all, Aziraphale’s come round his side, and not just left him to it. Does he have no sense of delicacy? Isn’t he an angel, for crying out loud? Crowley rolls down the window with a raised brow.

“Yes?” He asks. His tone is even. Empty. Aziraphale deflates a little, in that way of his when he’s debating something he’s gotten himself all het up about.

“Oh, I am sorry, dear,” he says, and then leans through and kisses him on the cheek.

And then leaves. Just like that. As if he hasn’t just turned Crowley right round in circles for the hundredth time, only to come back and _do it again immediately._

Somehow, he gets back to his flat in one piece. He sits outside in the Bentley, still staring into space. Shit, he needs a lie down. Instead, he makes his way into his “living room” and sends off his correspondence to cancel the heist. Shadwell’s business card sits under _S_ in his record file. He fetches a glass of water for his lone desk plant, and then fucks off to bed. 

He has shit to do, and he is a demon of hell. Angels do not matter to him.

(Except they do.)

Through the next few years, he spends some time causing minor chaos in and around London. He goes up to Scotland once, but they seem to be doing well with their oil drilling, so he goes over to Ireland. He doesn’t really know, but for the past four thousand years he’s been wondering whether or not he actually needs to do much to cause trouble, or whether it just follows him. Of course, he _knows_ his presence alone can’t do anything, but one can wonder. After, he heads over to New York, just for a quick visit. It’s a strangely square place, where all their building happens in grids and their pavements are sidewalks and their English is… An interesting interpretation of, to be fair. He visits a few of the tourist sites, influences some of their crime syndicates—you know, the usual. The food’s all right, if their snacks are a tad neon and everything comes in bizarrely large portion sizes. The pancakes don’t have anything on Scottish drop scones, but there’s something pleasing about the rubbery goodness and plentiful maple syrup. It’s not home, though. So he comes back and goes to find his sofa in Aziraphale’s shop.

The evening he returns, Aziraphale is sequestered away in his back room. Crowley knows that he largely ignores his customers in the hope that they bugger off and don’t buy anything, and is quite possibly absorbed in some reading of his own. Instead of going to find him, Crowley decides to take the opportunity to explore. He finds several shelves of Greek, Egyptian and Roman texts, not only of modern takes on their mythology, that may or may not have some kind of repelling wards over them. There is also a shelf for Shakespeare, originals hidden at the top and reprints and revisions below. Crowley takes the time to examine the more recent shelves, though there is nothing post 60s, yet, and also has a snoop around the illustrations he had delivered a century ago. Aziraphale finds him leaning over his desk reading the open pages of a Brontë he’d left.

“Stop hovering will you, you demon.” 

“It’s good to see you, too,” Crowley greets him.

“What brings you here?” Aziraphale asks, and oh, Crowley has missed that smile. He wants to reach out and touch. It’s been a fair few years.

“Nothing much, just visiting.”

“Oh, good. I have a nice Moët I picked up a while ago, if you would you like some.” Aziraphale looks at him expectantly. 

“Ehh, couldn’t hurt, I suppose. Are you done for the night, then?”

“Quite,” he says. “It’s been rather a slow day.”

 

* * *

 

“Dad,” shouts Adam Young. “I’ll do whatever you want me to when we’re at home, so please may we have a few more minutes? It’s important!” 

Arthur Young sighs, and shouts an, “All right, but don’t be too long!” and sits back in his car to wait. Aziraphale clears his throat, and all four young faces, plus a few older ones, swing back round to attention.

“Well, uh, I suppose you have questions?” He says.

“You don’t say,” mutters Pepper. Crowley likes this one’s attitude.

“So you’re a demon and an angel, but you work together and you came to stop the end of the world but we’ve only just met?” Adam summarises. Straight to the point, it seems.

“I suppose,” Crowley says, instead. He’s not a huge fan of Adam’s pseudo-omniscience.

“We’ve known each other for a long time, so we decided we might as well help each other out,” says Aziraphale, to shorten their story. “And then Crowley here had to begin Armageddon by bringing you, Adam, up to Earth to be slipped into a human family. Except we lost track of you, because there was another family and the children got switched around, so we ended up supervising the wrong child. I’m so sorry,” he tries, grimacing. Newton Pulsifier looks absolutely perplexed, and the Device girl looks like she would be taking notes if she had the means to, and probably less dignity.

“Well, it’s okay. It didn’t make a difference to me.” Adam replies casually. “And I knew you couldn’t shoot me, by the way, you don’t have to feel bad. I had been messing everything up a bit, so I don’t blame you for trying.” Aziraphale blinks.

“So, who are you people?” Wensleydale asks. Crowley smirks and bends in a flamboyant bow.

“I am Anthony J. Crowley, fallen angel of Hell, at your disservice. This is Aziraphale, Principality, of Heaven. Though I don’t think either of our people like us very much anymore.”

“Huh,” says Brian. “Cool. Do you have wings?”

“Sure do,” Crowley answers simply, and lets his manifest and stretch out to be as imposing as possible. Brian is suitably awestruck, and so are the others. Aziraphale rolls his eyes and shakes his own out, but hides them away again quickly.

“When did you two meet?” Pepper asks.

“That would be about four-thousand B.C. On the walls of the Garden of Eden.” 

“Four-thousand and _four,_ ” Crowley corrects, “and you had just given that sword to Adam. The first Adam.”

“And you had tempted Eve to eat the apple,” his angel reminds him.

“I thought it was a snake that did that,” Wensleydale whispers (unsuccessfully). Crowley lifts his eyebrows to him and smirks, letting his glasses slip down a little. The poor boy’s eyes go quite wide.

“Wow. How did you find us?” Adam looks at them, considering. “And is your name really Anthony? What does the J stand for?”

“We found you with the help of a witch from the sixteen-hundreds called Agnes Nutter. All of her prophecies come true, but she only has one remaining copy of her book, which Miss Device left in Crowley’s car,” Aziraphale says. “When I read it, we’d just found out we had been looking after the wrong boy, but the prophecies she told led us right to you. And please, nobody calls him Anthony.”

“ _They do too,_ ” Crowley replies in outrage. “But I did just add it to, you know. Blend in a bit. The J is nothing.”

“Right…”

The children are looking at them as if they are a bit mad, and probably, they are. 

“Are you going to disappear now? Will we ever see you again?” Asks Pepper.

“Yeah, you guys are cool. Will you visit again sometime? Because we have to go home for dinner now.”

“If you’d like, maybe, we could all meet for tea and answer some more questions?” Aziraphale suggests, looking very pleased. “Oh, it has been a while since we’ve had people to talk to.” 

“If you’d like,” Anathema Device cuts in, stepping forward, “you’re always welcome to have tea with me in the cottage. Like a meeting place, or something. Somewhere safe.” 

“Oh, that’s ever so kind of you ma’am,” Aziraphale agrees, beaming. He may as well have his halo out.

“Oh it’s not a problem, really.” She looks rather chuffed too, to be fair. “I’m the only one living there, and I don’t have much to do with myself now. I’ll have to find something to do, somehow.” 

The children cheer. “Thank you Miss Anathema! Can we come and see you soon?” 

“Of course,” she says with a smile, “and Dog is welcome too.” 

“Goodness!” Aziraphale exclaims. “I’d forgotten about the hellhound!”

Crowley sighs. Just as they were extracting themselves from the Q&A panel… 

“Hellhound?!” Pepper and Wensleydale sound appalled. Newt is giving the mutt a long side glance. He doesn’t blame them.

“Yesss,” says Crowley, resigned. “ _When the antichrist is to turn eleven, he is to come into his power_ —that was how the order of events was to go. Well, Hell decided a suitable partner was to be chosen to aid him with his world domination. Fortunately, Adam’s intentions and naming gave the hellhound his purpose and so…”  He waves his hands at the poor pup vaguely. “Dog.” 

“Woahhh,” intones Brian, kneeling immediately to scratch the most ferocious creature on Earth behind the ears. Dog rolls over and sticks his paws in the air to be played with, and Brian, the ever-loyal servant, obliges.

“Well then, my dear,” Aziraphale catches Crowley’s eye, blessedly, “we’d best be off back to London. Sort out what’s become of everything.”

“Ah, course. Wait, Angel—the car.” Crowley can’t help but feel his spirit droop at the thought. He puts one hand on his hip and uses the other to rub his eyes beneath his glasses.

“Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale says softly, placing a hand on his arm. “We’ll figure something out, surely. You loved it an awful lot. “

“Demons don’t love,” Crowley replies, but with no fight.

“Do you two need a lift?” Newt pipes up. He looks between the two of them. “We can take you back to the village?” Anathema smiles at him, and he relaxes a bit.

“If you would be so kind… Yes please.”

“Bye, Mister Crowley, Mister Aziraphale!” Chorus the children before they wander off.

“My,” Aziraphale says, leaning into him, happily, “aren’t they awfully polite.”

They get the bus home that evening, slouching into one another on the long trip back to London. All roads lead to Rome, and that. Aziraphale’s hand rests on Crowley’s knee, and Crowley’s arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders. The night is surprisingly humid, and the windows are open to let the muggy air circulate. Crowley is strangely comfortable in this uncomfortable position, and has to several times fight off sleep’s incorrigible talons. They arrive outside Crowley’s flat sooner than expected, possibly because he’d fallen asleep after all, and he looks between Aziraphale and the building imploringly. Eventually, Aziraphale stops dithering and follows him in. For once, the lift is in perfect working order, because Crowley has been too preoccupied to chase away the maintenance crew.

“Good evening Crowley! You’re getting back a bit late today!” Calls a voice from a doorway behind them. Crowley winces and turns to look over his shoulder. One of his neighbours, short, about forty, brown hair, has poked her head out of her flat.

“Evening, Estelle. I see the lift’s back.”

“Yes, yes, those lads must have finally taken your talking-tos to heart,” she titters. “But we’re all used to the stairs now, and it’s not like extra exercise ever hurt. Just glad there aren’t any older people here. Mister Brunsley complains about his knee, but he never did his physio properly before, anyway.”

“Yes, quite. I’m glad you’re well.”

“Thank you, dear. Anyway, I shall leave you gentlemen to your business,” she says, winking and going back inside. Crowley sighs, and glares ardently ahead, a few paces from his door.

“How cute,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley jerks back to look at him incredulously, fingers resting on the door handle.

“What is? Are you mad?” He can feel the heat rising, unbidden, on the back of his neck.

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” 

Crowley waves Aziraphale inside ahead of him, firmly elbowing his sudden second thoughts out of mind.

“Oh. Oh, Crowley,” gasps Aziraphale, who reaches blindly for Crowley’s arm and clings to it. Crowley peeks his head over his angel’s shoulder, only to remember too late that there’s still a puddle of steaming holy water on the floor.

“Ah,” he says. “That.”

Aziraphale spins around in disbelief. “What _happened_ to you?” He asks urgently.

“That’s Ligur, kind of. They came to get me. I guess I’m probably not getting off the hook for that one.”

“You don’t say!” Aziraphale agrees hoarsely. Crowley hides his grin behind a hand. “What on Earth are you laughing about? Look, stay here. I’ll clean up.” He storms off, snapping his fingers once, harshly. Crowley ambles in behind him warily. The puddle has disappeared, but he can still feel where is was on the floor. He finds his way to his plants, spritzing them absently while he listens to Aziraphale rattle around in the main room. He’s inspecting the little leaf plant hidden in the utility room for more leaf spots when his angel comes to find him, still fuming quietly.

“What is it?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale steps up next to him and strokes each leaf of the plant. The black splotches heal in the wake of wherever his fingers trace.  
“I am so _incredibly_ beside myself.” He says sharply. Crowley’s furrowed brows soften. “I cannot believe I was so _careless_ as to discorporate myself and just left you here to, to _deal_ with everything, when I should have been with you.”

Crowley’s heart seizes for him, a painful strike through his chest as he watches Aziraphale berate himself. He is staring intently at the little plant, tracing its pot. He snaps off his glasses and slips them into his pocket, and places a hand over one of Aziraphale’s. He stills, but doesn’t look at him.

“I should have been here, Crowley. I could have protected you. I _should_ have. I should have known.”

“It was all a part of the ineffable plan, I’m sure,” Crowley says in an attempt at humour. It goes down a storm. Aziraphale glares at their hands, and smacks him weakly.

“Oh, _eff_ the plan,” he groans.

Crowley snorts and leans an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. He’s a stranger to comfort, he’s a demon, but this is instinctual, like his bizarre urge to cradle the crying baby Adam all those years ago, against all better judgement.

“There is no way you could have been here, Zira, don’t blame yourself,” he reminds him softly. “I never said anything about it, and you’ve never met them. How could you have known?”

“I don’t know, Crowley. I don’t _know_ .” Aziraphale whispers and finally looks up at him. Crowley is close enough to count his eyelashes, to see each fascinating strand of colour in his iris. “I’m sorry I left. I am _so_ sorry.”

In the next second, Aziraphale has slipped his hands up to Crowley’s face and is kissing him, actually kissing him, and Crowley forgets how to breathe. He brings his own hands up to clench in Aziraphale’s lapels, with his eyes tight shut and his knees considerably weak. Aziraphale pulls back slowly, ever so gently, pressing little kisses everywhere as he goes. 

“Thank you for waiting for me, my love,” he whispers, brushing his fingers across Crowley’s cheek. When Crowley opens his eyes he realises that he’s crying, and he can’t even bring himself to spare it a thought.

“I love you,” he chokes out. Aziraphale smiles so brightly he could be glowing.

“I love you too,” he says, wiping away more of Crowley’s tears. “You’ve been so kind to me. I’ll make it up to you.” 

Crowley laughs, a strangled sound, because his angel is so beautiful and kind and an absolute utter _bastard,_ and his relief is immeasurable _._  

“You’d better,” he says, feeling the lightest he has since he fell. “If we make it through this one, you owe me a date.”

Even through the blur of his teary eyes, Crowley sees the mischief that settles in Aziraphale’s expression. “Actually, I was thinking that I have a plan for what we do next. But, I think,” he says, “we can think about that tomorrow.” 

And kisses him soundly.

 

* * *

 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouts from downstairs. “We said we’d be there by one!”

Crowley bangs the wardrobe door shut and grins to himself. The sky outside the window is a gorgeous blue, with only a few straggling clouds over the valley. 

“Coming, Angel,” he replies, letting the flowers in hand drop to rest on his shoulder. He skips down the stairs two at a time, enjoying the feel of the glossy wooden bannister as he slides his hand over it. Aziraphale is waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting at the table in the golden square of sunlight directed by the cottage windows.

“Happy anniversary, my love,” he says, presenting his angel with the bouquet of dahlia and white calla lilies. Aziraphale catches his sleeve and pulls him down to kiss him sweetly.

“Happy anniversary,” he sighs. “I got you something for the kitchen.” 

“Oh?” Crowley turns to look at the surfaces. Instead he sees a couple of new pans hanging from the pan rack above him, and small test tubes and glass flasks hanging between them with some cuttings of his ivy, and even a begonia. And they’re _even_ kept out of the sunlight.

“I thought they looked sweet,” Aziraphale explains, smiling and busying himself with filling a vase.

“Aziraphale, where—what even gave you the idea?” Crowley asks, tapping a florence flask and setting it swinging. He loves them already.

“Oh, you know. Something I saw in one of those home magazines.”

“Of course.” Crowley nabs one of the smallest dahlias and, breaking off some of the stem, tucks it into Aziraphale’s lapel. “Shall we be off, then?” 

“Yes, let’s!”

There are five bikes outside Jasmine Cottage when they arrive. The garden is lovely and green, though beginning to wilt a little in the heat, and the front door is open. Anathema, Newt, the children and Dog are all out in the front, seated at the prim little garden table set beneath an umbrella. The children cheer when they step out of the car. Crowley thinks, unintentionally fond, of when the boys were still small and squeaky. Now they’re almost fourteen and making the very most of their summer holidays.

“Do come in, we have tea!” Anathema says.

“How very tempting,” Aziraphale jokes. Crowley checks his watch, and they’re five minutes early.

They sit in the shade drinking tea and nibbling sandwiches and watching Brian and Wensleydale be chased around with the sprinkler. There are butterflies fluttering in and out of the hedgerows, and bees flitting between huge blooming creepers, and a warm breeze ruffling their clothes. It truly is a heavenly day.

A few hours later, about right for afternoon tea, Crowley takes the teapots in to fill them and change the teabags. There are two large bowls in the sink, along with several spoons and the aftermath of a sticky mess. Glancing around, but still trying not to snoop, he soon spies a couple of open boxes left abandoned in the corner behind the microwave. When he steps closer to read them, and also take notice of the discarded sweet packets, he can’t keep his laughter to himself.

“Is something the matter, Crowley?” Newt shouts through the door.

“No, no, nothing at all!” 

He stirs in the new teabags and carries out the pots to their cosies. Aziraphale and Anathema give him suspicious looks, and he’s probably still smiling, but it doesn’t matter.

A little while later, he sees all four children slip inside the house, one after the other, but he still pretends to be surprised when they come bursting out again with plates and cutlery.

“Happy anniversary!” All four of them shout, and he is surprised. Adam presents a wide display platter, atop which is a messy, glorious-looking devil’s food cake surrounded by a ring of angel slices. The finishing piece is a shaky set of horns done in red icing, and a halo.

“Goodness!” Aziraphale exclaims he claps his hands. Newt, Anathema and Crowley join in with the applause. “How splendid!”

“Oh my word,” Crawley says slowly, gazing at the thing in astonishment. “You _didn’t_ make all that, did you?”

“We did! We did!” Pepper grins. Brian manages to put the bowls of sweets and crisps down both without dropping them or losing any, and she puts the serviettes and cutlery down next to them.

“Anathema helped us, because she’s brilliant at baking,” Wensleydale says, handing them plates.

“Newt helped us make pink lemonade too, and his mum gave us her recipe,” Adam says. Dog barks his agreement.

“They wanted to say thank you,” says Anathema. “They think you’re very cool, apparently, and that we’re all also very cool, because we’re friends with both _ethereal and occult_ beings,” she smiles teasingly, “but also as thanks for helping them save the world.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job here, goodness me. It all looks delicious.” Aziraphale smiles at all of them. “Should we celebrate the end of your school year, too?” He clicks his fingers and a bowl of party poppers materialises on the table. “You’ve all done brilliantly.” They all gasp and take a handful, grinning.

“Are these _biodegradable?_ ” Wensleydale asks.

“Of course, nothing less.” And then they’re all setting them on each other. 

“Thank you, really,” Newt says.

“Oh, nonsense,” Crowley chides, waving a hand. “It was all of us, we all stopped it together. And there’s no use dwelling on it, is there? We’re all here now.” 

“Ah, that’s true.” Newt fiddles with the wedding ring on his finger. “But still, they felt as if they never got to celebrate it with you. And now is as good a time as any, isn’t it?”

Anathema is toppling slices of cake onto the children’s plates and decorating them with each of their favourite sweets. Adam is seeing if he can get Dog to pull the string of the party popper he’s holding while Brian sneaks up behind him with the sprinkler. Wensleydale is trying to convince Pepper to leave her vantage point in the apple tree, both of them covered in colourful strands of crepe paper. Aziraphale has biodegradable glitter in his hair and on his face, smiling as he watches the kerfuffle on the lawn, and stroking his thumb over Crowley’s hand.

“Ah,” Crowley sighs. “You’re absolutely right.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you ever so much, my friend, for reading!  
> I was desperate to add onto the scenes we're already blessed with, and I'm terribly sorry for any inconsistencies with the book, because I haven't read it yet (but do plan to!)  
> Please feel free to drop me some feedback if you have the time :)  
> [tumblr](https://silverxsakura.tumblr.com/)


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